Uninvited
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: When Gil-Galad, the High King of the Noldor, takes an interest in a strange elleth who many fear is dangerous, what peace that remains between the Elven lands in Middle-Earth is threatened. There are those who find her troubled but harmless, some who fear that she may destroy the High King and just one who believes that all of Elvendom itself is at stake.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Welcome! I'm so happy to have you here. Before we begin, I just have a few notes about this story that I would like to bring to your attention. To start with, this is the first substantial piece of writing I have done in about seven years. Long story short, I've been living with a severe chronic illness for some time now and found that I had more or less lost the ability to write due to a myriad of physical and emotional reasons. But now, yes now, I think maybe I'm ready to try again. So yay! You see why I'm so happy to be here.

A few other things...this story is not strictly canon (well, I suppose all fanfiction isn't really canon). I'm trying very, very hard to adhere to what I think to be Professor Tolkien's wondrous vision. That said, if I make some huge mistake (like mix up the timeline of the S.A. or misspell some Quenya), please do let me know right away and I will fix it .If I'm being completely honest with you, I'm more familiar with the events of the T.A. than the S.A., so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will all go as smoothly as possible.

Also, this fic is basically about one thing: Elves behaving badly and making poor choices. I hate to be blunt, but if that isn't your thing, maybe it would be best to skip this one. Of course, we aren't talking about Game of Thrones-level treachery here, although there is a fair amount of political intrigue and backstabbing and bitter feelings going on. Having said that, though, I have a HUGE amount of respect for Tolkien's Elves and have tried my very best to stay true to their culture, morays and practices.

Now lastly, the main female character of this story has an incorrect name. To be frank, it's just something of garbled Elvish that I tried to make up with my little Quenya/Sindarin phrasebook about thirteen years ago. So why haven't I changed it? Lots of reasons, but mostly because it's been her name since I started this fic years ago and to change it now would confuse too many important elements. So yes, feel free to call me out on that if you like, but I am highly aware of it.

Well, that's my rambling nonsense for now. I really hope you find this prologue enjoyable. If you have a free moment, please leave a review, I'd be totally psyched to hear from you. Any and all feedback is, of course, more than welcome. Thanks!

 **Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of Tolkien's work.

 **Summary:** When Gil-Galad, the High King of the Noldor, takes an interest in a strange elleth who many fear is dangerous, what peace that remains between the Elven lands in Middle-Earth is threatened. There are those who find her troubled but harmless, some who fear that she may destroy the High King and just one who believes that all of Elvendom itself is at stake.

 **Uninvited**

 **Prologue**

 _'When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create_  
 _No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;_  
 _Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate._  
 _Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.'_  
 _Dido's Lament by Henry Purcell_  
 _  
_

Year One of the Third Age

The arrow had pierced her side, just a little shy of her stomach and as the hot spring of blood spilled down her leg, she knew she was dead. Dead, now, at her zenith. Dead, now, from fate's cruel humor. Dead where she stood, as her life drained away drip by solemn drip, puddling onto the ground beneath her booted feet.

Alone on the Great East Road, so desperate, so panicked and yet so hopeful to make it to the Havens, she had not seen her attacker when the fatal shot was loosed. Did not see him now, as he had disappeared back into the twilit forest. Would never know...if only there was a way to be certain...

Before her strength waned, before the inevitable, decline, yes decline, how she hated the word! could begin, she swung her sword wildly to the right, taking off the shaft of the arrow with a satisfying swipe. The arrow fell and so did she, onto her knees, onto the sweet springtime grass, alone for the most intimate moment of her life. Sky and soil. Sun and stone. Her mind grappled with time, struggling to hold each moment, each painful stab of breath as her lungs struggled to expand.

With her hands splayed out onto the ground before her, she saw the broken shaft again and something reminiscent of terror poked its way through the haze of pain and told her to be frightened. The sun was passing towards the west and the sky becoming leeched of color, but even through the shadows she could make out some of the more obvious details of the arrow's fletching. Peacock feathers. Golden twine. Deliberate yet neat knife marks near the nock. How easy it was for her to recognize these things, these impressions of her people. She knew for certain now. The arrow wasn't Orc craft or even from the realm of Men. It was Elven.

For an instant, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she thought she might lose consciousness. But not now. Not when she needed to know. If her death could be accepted in this sliver of a moment, she would accept it on the condition that she would die having realized, once and for all and forever, that she had been right.

Time was short, the light low. She would need to work very quickly.

Weakly, she touched the wound in her side and the remnants of the broken arrow, its head still stiff in her belly. There was no way to prepare herself. Her cold fingers closed against the splintered shaft and pulled. She screamed. There was a bright ribbon of blood and a sudden heady rush of release as her stomach gave way and she lay there like an animal with her guts spread out on the earth, alone there, at the very end of things. Alone and dying, shamed by the ignominy of it all.

Her thoughts were soft and malleable, shifting into sights and sounds and the strange taste of bile at the back of her throat. The immediacy of it all pressed against her and she tried to remember how she had prepared herself for this time, time that now slithered through her desperately cupped hands like water. Salt water. The spray on her face. Her father's smile. Her mother's touch. As if by instinct she curled her body into a prone crescent, and, ignoring the wound in her abdomen, smelled the thawing earth around her, still chilled with the last of winter's frost. With each precious second passing she began to forget where she was and why, who she had been and how, what she had loved and lost. She called his name, only to find her voice pulled away by the wind. His face blurred in her mind's eye as a new, impenetrable darkness encroached, so different from the velvety folds of the night, so all encompassing and devouring that she panicked and began to choke on her own tears.

And as her labored breathing slowed, as her body began to cool, she felt a final stirring of sadness, for the great futility of it all and the hopelessness of the end, of her final end, which would come now, ignored and unnoticed on a spring night nearly empty of stars.

There was no one with her when she died, in the chaos of the Wild. There was no one to soothe her in her last flailing moments of dark agony. There was no one there to close her eyes as her life ebbed from them, leaving only the reflection of the scudding clouds in her dilated pupils. There was no one to find her body for months, when only her rusting sword remained and she had long returned to the earth, picked apart by scavengers and other, less savory creatures.

A corner of the moon, a hint of a yellowed tusk, poked through the black, briefly illuminating the sky and the ground and the small forest clearing that would be her tomb. And in that light (oh, that light so dim!) she picked up the end of the arrow she had pulled from her side and held it up to the moon. The arrowhead, still wet with her blood, glittered blackly. But she saw it, at the very last. Amanthoniel saw what she had hoped, had prayed and Valar, had feared she would see before death clamped down on her with its hungry maw. She recognized the subtle curves of the arrowhead and knew, at once, where it had come from. Lothlorien. Her home.

 **Author's Note:** That's all for now. More to come soon. Be well, you guys!

 _PS I'm currently looking for a beta for this story. If you are interested or would like more information about this fic, please feel free to PM me at any time._


	2. Chapter One The Arrival and the Reunion

**Author's Note:** Welcome to chapter one! So sorry it took me so long to post. I had tons of editing to do regarding this piece and then, in the middle of all that, I went on vacation. So yes, I am a bit late in updating. ;)

Before we begin, I would like to thank everyone who read, reviewed and/or followed this story. I'd also like to thank my wonderful beta reader, **DasewigGewitter** , for her above and beyond efforts with this chapter. And in case you were curious, the chapter title is a tribute to a Dead Can Dance song of the same name. If you have a chance, give it a listen.

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you enjoy this installment!

 **Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of Tolkien's work.

 **Chapter One The Arrival and the Reunion**

 _Do you recall what was revealed the day the music died?-Don McLean "American Pie"_

 _Lothlorien— Year 2240 of the Second Age_

On the morning of Midsummer's Eve, King Gil-galad arrived in the Woodland Realm with his herald, Lord Elrond and a host of his Noldorin kin. The company gathered on the western banks of the Nimrodel where Haldir could see them from his talan perched in a towering mallorn.

He drummed his fingers against the polished length of his longbow, counting two dozen white palfreys carrying members of the court and soldiers as they approached the bridge. The King himself rode a gleaming black destrier. Lord Elrond, seated on horse to Gil-galad's right, carried a blue banner embroidered with twelve silver stars. From out of the forest, the Galadhrim guards took up the call and blew thrice on their horns.

A few feet away, Captain Amanthoniel gestured at Haldir, her usually sullen face alight with rare worry. "Come! Come now!" she ordered. He knew well enough to obey her when summoned.

"At once," he replied, curbing his own pride as he lifted his bow onto his back, hanging it next to his good leather quiver, the one his father had gifted him with the tooled vines and leaves of gold.

Together, they climbed down the ladder draped against the trunk of the tree. The woods were silent save for the swish of the hithlain rope as their booted feet brushed against every rung. All around them Silvan Elves were emerging from the mellyrn and making their way to the forest floor. Several yards from him, Haldir spotted his younger brother, Orophin, who had joined the guard six months ago. Even at a distance, Orophin's excitement was clear. Neither he nor Haldir had seen the High King of the Noldor before.

"Have they crossed the river yet?" Orophin whispered. The guards were arranging themselves into four neat rows. As second-in-command, Haldir knew he should stand near the front, but he tarried at his brother's side, attempting to avoid Captain Amanthoniel's strict gaze.

"Not yet," he mouthed.

A heavy mist had settled onto the mountains when the sun rose and now a lively breeze was bringing bits of it into the forest where it sat low to the ground. Through the haze and arcing branches overhead, Haldir could just make out the gentle blue sky, the sun benign and sleepy despite the flurry of activity among the Silvan Elves.

"Quickly now!" Captain Amanthoniel demanded, her gray eyes falling on Haldir and Orophin. "I said quickly!" She took a step forward, as if to separate them, but then thought better of it. Orophin jumped back into formation and Haldir joined his Captain, not eager to be by her side, but ever obedient and respectful of his duty.

"Should we have met them on the far shore?" Captain Amanthoniel asked. Haldir knew she was not seeking his opinion, but still, it was strange to see her questioning her own judgment, especially before her inferiors. It would be tactful, he decided, to pretend that he hadn't heard her at all.

Again, the Galadhrim's horns blew and their call was returned. King Gil-galad and his company were drawing closer.

"Do not speak unless spoken to," Captain Amanthoniel said to her guards. "Haldir, you will take the King's horse."

"Yes, Captain." An honor, Haldir thought. If he was being truthful with himself, he felt slightly nervous. Needing reassurance, he looked to his brother who stood near the very back of the formation. He almost envied Orophin who was but one of many. A nameless face in the common crowd. Unseen. Unnoticed. Safe, in his own, simple way.

The breeze stirred the lingering mist and several of the leaves in the canopy above. For a third and final time, the horns sounded, Haldir's heartbeat acting as a counter-drum to their bright, pure refrain. After a tense pause, the first of the Noldorin party entered the clearing, followed at once by Lord Elrond with his azure banner and then the King himself. There was an audible murmur of awe from the Galadhrim as their kin reined in their mounts. The nearest of the horses towered over Captain Amanthoniel who was small in stature, but now seemed insignificant in her simple gray tunic, her head thrown back to look up at the King.

Gil-galad's smile was instantaneous. "Well met!" he said, his voice hail and hearty.

There was a moment's hesitation, but before Haldir could step forward, the Captain darted between him and took hold of the destrier's bridle.

* * *

"Oh what a fuss," Berion said with a wry grin. "So much ceremony for so little."

Haldir could not help but smile too. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend, a fellow guard, in the grand pavilion, savoring the final, fleeting moments of tranquility before he would be required to take up his position as sentry. In accordance with hospitality, the Lord and Lady of the Wood had ordered that a feast be held for their newly arrived guests. It was a privilege to attend. Purportedly. Berion, on the other hand, was keenly skeptical.

"I could be home," he mused, moving his arms stiffly under the tremendous weight of his armor. "My wife promised me lamb stew."

"Do not let the Captain hear you speak so," Haldir warned him, only half in jest. Although Berion was older than him, they had both joined the Galadhrim guard in the same year and served under Captain Amanthoniel for several decades. In that time Haldir had risen to second-in-command, while Berion stayed happily in his place. Unlike his younger friend, Berion did not possess the tolerance nor respect to manage their Captain's moods. Haldir, on the other hand, was much more biddable.

"They are late," Berion said. Craning his neck, he glanced at the winding staircase that led into the glade where the pavilion sat. No one had appeared.

"Nobility can afford to be tardy," Haldir reminded him. The feast was set to begin before nightfall, but in the last few minutes, the servants had gone around lighting the torches and braziers scattered around the glade. Outside the pavilion, beyond the embellished columns that supported the roof, the forest had darkened considerably. Twilight fell in soft shades of bruised blue. Outlines of the statues framing the entrance to the pavilion were now smudged with deepening shadows. The banquet tables inside bore bronze candles, white wax pooling at the base of each upright stick. The filled decanters of wine glowed fiercely. At a distance, Haldir heard music and Berion too lifted his head. The Noldorin party was coming.

Several minutes passed before Haldir saw the first of them, a group of minstrels clad in Galadriel's pale colors. The standard bearers came next and then, in order of precedence, the rest of the guests. Many guards whom he recognized flanked the group, including some from Lindon that he did not. Oddly enough, Captain Amanthoniel, who was herself of Noldorin descent, seemed more at home among the strangers with their dark and occasionally coppery hair and strong features. Although none were brave (or foolish) enough to admit it to her, she stood out rather poorly when matched against her Silvan guards.

"Are we improperly dressed?" Berion murmured to Haldir. He was referring to the guests who had swapped their dusty traveling clothes for fine, embroidered robes. The guards alone, including their Captain, wore autumn-toned armor.

Haldir shifted uncomfortably. He hated to be noticed. "The King, maybe..." he began, but was soon proven wrong. At the very end of the cavalcade, the Lord and Lady of the Wood, along with King Gil-galad, entered the pavilion. Galadriel and Celeborn were resplendent in silver, stars in the summer night. Gil-galad was garbed in his traditional blue and had a gold crown set just above his ears. Haldir had heard rumors that Celebrimbor himself had fashioned the piece, along with other items of even greater value.

The music stopped once the pavilion was filled and the guests arranged around the long banquet tables. On a dais at the front the royal members of the party found their high-backed chairs. There was a heady pause in which Gil-galad commanded the room, his presence distinct and surprisingly elegant.

The King waited, seeming to survey the company with a quiet sense of detachment. While there were many gathered, Haldir felt watched. It wasn't a necessarily pleasant sensation and he dropped his eyes to his boots, the lush summer grass covering the points of his toes. He counted four breaths before he looked up again. Gil-galad sat. One by one, the guests followed suit. When all were settled, only the guards remained standing.

Beside him, Berion frowned. "So much for so little," he echoed.

Haldir could only shrug. It was not easy for him to admit how truly impressed he felt.

* * *

Even at a feast, sentry duty lacked the excitement of traditional soldiery. Despite the lively music and constant flow of servants moving among the tables with platters of food and wine, there was an air of dullness infusing the entire affair. Berion often expressed his boredom by sighing tersely every quarter of an hour, and while Haldir would have usually agreed with his disinterest, he could not help but be mildly intrigued by the royal Elves sitting on the dais. They seemed, to him, for all their pomp and circumstance, to be quite normal. They spoke and ate and laughed and drank. The High King in particular was merry and he conversed at length with his Lord Celeborn, who was seated at his left and, Lord Elrond, on his right.

The only Elf on the dais who seemed ill at ease was Captain Amanthoniel. No more than a glorified guard, she stood behind Lord Elrond, who had fostered her for some time in her youth, her hand braced on the hilt of her sword. Even in the bright torchlight, her face was pale and she seemed more apprehensive than fatigued. Haldir wondered at her discomfort. She was not an elleth to show emotion, except anger. Now she appeared watchful, her mood seemingly out of place in the cheerful company.

"They are only on the first course," Berion remarked suddenly, drawing Haldir's attention away from his Captain. " _Valar_ ," he moaned, drawing out the last syllable of the word with a flick of his tongue.

"Patience." Haldir told him. From where they stood, between two columns off to the side of the pavilion, it was difficult to see the other sentries. He suspected, of course, that his fellows were also weary, although it would be bad manners to show it before the guests.

Berion adjusted his stance. "If we are not home before dawn..." But he trailed off, his threat empty and remained silent until the feast was halfway through, the servants clearing the plates as the main course was carried into the pavilion.

Haldir, drowsy from the repetitious music and enchanting scent of the wild Elanor drifting into the glade, felt a hand close around his mouth. His first instinct was to grip the hilt of his sword, ornamental though it was, and bare his teeth against the warm fingers. But then Orophin laughed riotously in his ear, tugging his brother back into the shadows where they wouldn't be seen.

Haldir turned around, giving his sibling a look that he hoped would convey his sincere disapproval. "Are you mad? Why have you come here?"

Orophin grinned, not possessing the humility or decency to appear abashed. "I could not stay in our talan. The music alone is heard the city o'er."

"Then stay put in your bed and listen," Haldir fumed, glancing back over his shoulder to make certain that they hadn't been noticed by any of the guests. Captain Amanthoniel would have them flayed alive if she knew that one of her guards had slipped into the feast uninvited,

Berion, however, crept away from his post and joined them in the dark, his smile genuine when he saw the younger ellon. "Company, eh?" he said, one eyebrow raised.

Haldir fought the urge to roll his eyes. "He is _not_ meant to be here."

"Ah, but let the lad stay," Berion said and Orophin nodded vigorously.

"I wanted to see them, Haldir. Our highborn kin," his brother said, standing straight up on his toes to catch a glimpse of the festivities.

"Our kin indeed," Haldir replied. Feeling apathetic, he looked to the dais where the dark-headed Elves were enjoying platters heaped with roasted venison and blanched parsnips cooked with buttered herbs. Galadriel alone stood out with her white-gold hair, its luster impressive even in the torchlight .

"What were the toasts like?" Orophin asked. He had settled against the bole of the column, sufficiently hidden from view in his drab linen tunic and leggings.

"Monotonous," Haldir said and Berion agreed with a curt shake of his head. It was hard for Haldir to admit, but even the High King's speech had lacked the valor and energy he was renowned for. "I thought they would continue for hours."

"You have no imagination," Orophin commented. "When I left home, Rumil was squirming with envy. But even I am not brazen enough to bring him along. He could never keep quiet with Lord Glorfindel so close by."

Haldir smiled to himself. Orophin was right. Their youngest brother worshiped the Balrog slayer, having both read and memorized all of his mighty deeds. To bring Rumil to the feast would have invited disaster. Haldir could envision the elfling trying to sneak his way onto the dais to be near his idol...

But his thoughts were scattered when Orophin's face tightened, his fair brows jumping together to form a little crevice at the center of his otherwise unlined forehead. "Ai! She has seen me!"

Lithely, he dipped further into the darkness, ducking behind the column as far from the torchlight as he possibly could. Haldir and Berion immediately took up their posts once more, playing the part of attentive sentries. A moment past before they realized what had startled Orophin. Captain Amanthoniel had left the dais and was walking down the center of the pavilion. The music had ceased. Had something gone wrong?

Haldir looked to the crowd and saw only expectant faces. The attention of most of the guests seemed drawn to the Captain, although Lord Elrond was leaning across the table to speak to the King.

"Has she been dismissed?" Berion asked, his expression vague and confused.

Haldir shrugged. It was a moment before he understood. Instead of exiting the pavilion, Amanthoniel had joined the group of minstrels, gesturing to the harpist, her right hand moving back and forth to a rhythm only she could hear. The situation was obvious. Lord Elrond had requested that his ward sing for the company.

How peculiar! Haldir thought, watching his Captain as she prepared to perform. He knew, of course, that she had dabbled in the musical arts (with no apparent success) as a child, although it seemed odd that she would be asked to sing now at such a significant feast. Amanthoniel, distant, awkward and sullen, certainly did not seem to be the type of elleth who could charm a company of Elves with her voice alone. Of course, after her performance and after she had (perhaps inadvertently?) insulted her guardian, the High King and almost every single guest at the feast, Haldir would wonder just why Lord Elrond would have taken such a strange chance and called upon her.

"This may have been worth the wait," Berion jested, as Captain Amanthoniel, dressed from head to toe in her finest armor, took up a singer's stance besides the harpist and began a well-known lay. Although he was generally liked by most of the other guards, Haldir knew he had a penchant for mischief and would enjoy the opportunity to, privately, mock their Captain.

Haldir ignored him, listening to the first few clear notes plucked by the harpist's nimble fingers, unable to keep his curiosity at bay. When the Amanthoniel began to sing, he took a small step forward so that he was no longer standing at his place between the columns and could see the entirety of the pavilion.

It began well enough. Although the song she had chosen was inappropriate, too dark and thoughtful for the merriment of the gathering, he supposed that there would be some to appreciate it. Amanthoniel's voice, at very start, was surprisingly well-adjusted, with an air of uncharacteristic serenity to it. But then, when the first verse was finished and the chorus echoing throughout the respectfully quiet pavilion, something went wrong.

Mayhap the heat had tightened her voice or she was frightened or she simply had no talent. Whatever the cause, Amanthoniel's singing was, put bluntly, an embarrassment. At first, Haldir thought (hoped?) that she might recover and correct her wildly quavering voice. She was, after all, a seasoned warrior and had faced foes that left even his dreams troubled. Why should singing before the company terrify her?

But she was failing, losing control. The volume of her voice rose and fell, not in accordance with the cadence of the song, but obviously due to Amanthoniel's lack of vocal power. Panicked, the elleth glanced about as if searching for help. All refused to meet her gaze, except the High King who had leaned forward in his chair, his fingers neatly tented.

Haldir tried to guess what Gil-galad was thinking. Surely he was insulted by this poor performance, which seemed in complete disregard for his dignity and stature. Or perhaps he would be generous and let the poor elleth's wretched singing speak for itself. Valar knew, Amanthoniel was already shaming herself a thousand times over. No punishment, after all, was warranted.

Haldir looked away from the High King and back at Amanthoniel, She had now taken to hurrying through the song and after another excruciating minute, the lay ended.

Berion exhaled, his lips pursed, his eyes sliding towards Haldir as if silently sharing his thoughts on their Captain's disgraceful behavior. Behind him, Orophin made a sound of relief, his hands pressed to his cheeks just below his ears, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to degrade their Captain further. Haldir couldn't blame him. He pitied Amanthoniel, who had returned to the dais without Lord Elrond's leave to take up her watchful stance once more. The minstrels quickly slipped into another song to cover the ringing silence and soon, the joy of the night was restored, the company of noble Elves conversing and laughing and drinking the sweet red wine that was now being brought around in gilded pitchers by the servants. And the feast might have continued for several hours more, Haldir believed, had the High King not risen from his chair and left.

* * *

"See, Faeleth! See my skill!" Concentrating, Haldir tried to balance a fruit knife on the tip of his finger much to the delight of the serving elleth who was attempting to clear one of the banquet tables.

Faeleth's peals of happy laughter rang out in the now empty pavilion where only a few servants remained, removing the refuse of the feast as dawn settled serenely onto the Eastern horizon.

Haldir had meant to return home, liberated from his sentry duties after the King had departed the feast and effectively ended it the night before, but spotting Faeleth at the far end of the pavilion had kept him otherwise occupied. Berion had begged off his duty as soon as possible, leaving the instant he was dismissed and grumbling that his stew would have already gone cold. And even Orophin had pattered away, admitting that standing guard while the Noldorin royalty dined had lost its intrigue and prestige.

Haldir, however, had more important matters on his mind to contend with.

Faeleth was a pretty young elleth who, on occasions too rare for Haldir's liking, served meals to the guards in their private dining talan. Friendly, witty and playful, Faeleth had a liking for Haldir's antics, which to anyone but themselves would have been transparently flirtatious and perhaps a bit silly. The last time he had seen her, Haldir had juggled pomegranates for her, none too successfully. Now, he was determined to impress Faeleth, who's kind smile had a strange way of making his stomach flutter and his mind turn dumb.

"You are not helping," Faeleth protested to an exhausted yet giddy Haldir. "Give me that!"

Jubilantly, she swiped at the knife, but Haldir was quicker. "Tell me," he said, twirling the dull blade between his fingers, "were you amused by last night's performance."

Faeleth stopped clearing the table and looked at him, her expression suddenly serious and slightly dark. "You should not speak so of your Captain."

"I wasn't-"

"It is not her fault she is in a role so ill-suited for her," Faeleth continued, ducking her head as she brushed crumbs from the amber-colored linen cloth. "It is not natural for an elleth to be a soldier. We give life...how can she possibly take it?"

Haldir was stunned by the somber turn their conversation had taken. "Warfare _does_ suit her," he found himself insisting. Although he would never expose Faeleth to the brutal horrors of battle, he knew full well that Captain Amanthoniel didn't mind dirtying her hands with blood. In an odd way, it seemed fitting for her personality. Though others, obviously, disagreed. Perhaps Lord Elrond did too and his decision to encourage their Captain to sing was born of uncharacteristic whimsy and a desperate attempt to make his former ward feel recognized for a virtue that did not involve perpetual violence.

Haldir felt the weight of the fruit knife in his hand, the metal cold against his skin. Faeleth wouldn't meet his gaze as she swept the table free of debris.

"Still," she said after a length of time had past, "I heard that Lord Elrond's cup was filled four times throughout the feast,"

"You're implying that he was inebriated," Haldir remarked.

Again, Faeleth ducked her head, "Mayhap."

Haldir frowned. He wasn't pleased with how troubled the elleth seemed and again, he twirled the knife, finally holding it aloft. A breeze blew the smoke from the extinguished torches in their direction, shrouding them, for an instant, in gray. Emboldened by the opaque atmosphere, he dared to take a step closer to the elleth, and in a fit of wild teasing, declared, "Behold! Aeglos the snow point, against which none can stand!" And he laughed, pretending to strike out at an invisible foe.

Faeleth seemed about to chide him, her usually pale face rosy in the light of the rising sun, but then she dropped her gaze, her hand pressed flat over breasts and stepped away from Haldir as if she were truly terrified of the cutlery.

He couldn't understand it. It was only meant to be in jest, he hadn't meant to seem so irreverent and disrespectful but...

The footsteps came up quickly behind him and before Haldir could turn, he had been tugged roughly on the shoulder.

The High King, his clothes rumpled, his dark hair now undone from its crown, stood behind him in the billowing smoke.

Haldir's heart jumped into his mouth as he met Gil-galad's gaze.

There was a moment's pause and then...

"The elleth who could not sing, " Gil-galad said, his voice as soft as rolling thunder, "her name."

Haldir did not think beyond answering. Shamefully pocketing the fruit knife, he said, "Amanthoniel."

Soon after, he would regret ever having spoken.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** In case any of you were wondering, there was a bridge that used to span the Nimrodel (although Tolkien never specifies when and where it stood) that was long destroyed by the time the Fellowship arrived.

The opening quote from Don McLean is meant to be taken literally...or is it? You decide. :) Thanks for reading! Be well!


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